


pregame: bells

by hecleretical



Series: pregame [4]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Baltimore Crabs (Blaseball Team), Gen, WE STAN A BLASEBALL LESBIAN ACHILLES, also yes luis acevedo is a 17th century vocaloid vampire, and nagomi is selectively mute/forrest is fully mute, everyone in this fic is autistic, forrest best is autistic and only speaks in obscure quotes, getting to understand each other more, it's MY fic and I get to pick the obscure speech patterns that only make sense to me!!, let me tell you why nagomi mcdaniel is achilles, luis is kind of a baby but to be fair to them nagomi mcdaniel is wildly intimidating, mentioned body/eye horror a little bit with 'gomi, seriously nagomi loves her team so much. let her fucking fight the shelled one, there are literally so many nagomi achilles comparisons i could make
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecleretical/pseuds/hecleretical
Summary: Nagomi McDaniel is not only a figurative titan of blaseball; she is also six feet three inches tall. Bigger, too, from the bulk of her chitinous left arm. The crab legs bursting from her back. In the photos they had shown Luis she had a lion's mane of curly red hair, long and flowing. After emerging from her shell, it has been cut short. She is not dressed yet, wearing a button down shirt and-- joggers? they're called?-- one sleeve rolled up to reveal her impressive forearm. A crow sits on her shoulder, disapproving.She also very rarely speaks. That she has done so would indicate extreme displeasure.Luis scrambles to one side.or, luis acevedo gains an understanding.
Relationships: Forrest Best & Luis Acevedo, Luis Acevedo & Nagomi McDaniel, Nagomi McDaniel & Sutton Dreamy & Tot Fox
Series: pregame [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968154
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	pregame: bells

Luis Acevedo plays several instruments. The marimba, obviously, which they had played for the Garages; but also the keytar, the harp lute, the mandolin, the flamenco guitar, and the French horn. Still, above these, one instrument has been their favorite for as long as they can remember, centuries by now-- a very humble one, the bells. The great big bells of the McShane foundry here in Baltimore; little jingly bells on the ends of cat toys; sleigh bells, and church bells, and everything in between. They're simply so joyous that Luis can't go a day without them. So, of course, they have a belt of silver sleigh bells with them in the locker room on Day 28, slung over their shoulders, preparing themselves for the game.

Joyous energy. Like pure light. That's what Luis Acevedo likes to have before a game. Their projector is tucked out of the way under a bench, and they are dancing, twirling, flapping their hands in excitement, reveling in the sound-- they trip, in their excitement, spill to the floor, the tremendous tintinnabulation and clatter only fueling their happiness more. They lie sprawled out on the locker room floor, making snow angels with their arms, laughing.

A shadow falls over their face.

"Please do that somewhere else," says a hoarse alto voice. Quietly.

Luis looks up.

Nagomi McDaniel is not only a figurative titan of blaseball; she is also six feet three inches tall. Bigger, too, from the bulk of her chitinous left arm. The crab legs bursting from her back. In the photos they had shown Luis she had a lion's mane of curly red hair, long and flowing. After emerging from her shell, it has been cut short. She is not dressed yet, wearing a button down shirt and-- joggers? they're called?-- one sleeve rolled up to reveal her impressive forearm. A crow sits on her shoulder, disapproving.

She also very rarely speaks. That she has done so would indicate extreme displeasure.

Luis scrambles to one side.

McDaniel stands for a moment, looking at them with her sightless, scabbed-over eyes; then sweeps past, as if they were nothing. She signs something, over her chest, in a language they don't understand.

They stay on the floor for a long minute.

When they look up, they see to whom she was signing-- Forrest Best, his mannequin body suspended as always by his four crablike legs, protruding like McDaniel's from his back.

"Luis," he signs.

Best does not offer a hand for them as they stand up, shakily, dust off their uniform. The sleigh bells jingle. They remove the belt quickly. A glance at McDaniel, now standing at her locker changing, does not reveal any reaction.

"I have never met anyone," they murmur, "as unnerving as Nagomi McDaniel."

Best shrugs. When they go to retreat-- to find anywhere else in the locker room to hide-- he stares at their back for a long moment. Then he follows, claws tapping on the tile floor. Luis's projector, mounted on wheels for convenience, rolls along behind both of them. It whirs quietly.

When they find a quiet space, they sit down, Best still standing over them. Out of sight of her, now, tears well up in their eyes. They're only light, and they fizzle out before hitting the floor.

They rub their face. "Was I really that-- annoying?"

"It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs," Best signs, "and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave."

A peculiarity of his. Best signs, and upon joining the team they had been informed of this-- seemingly no worry, as Luis can sign in ASL and LSM. What was neglected, however, is the fact that Best prefers to speak in quotations, the more obscure the better. He fingerspells dead languages. Luis, who is older than most of the team and more well-read, still finds it inscrutable.

"I don't know what that means."

He shrugs.

The bells are shoved into their locker, the remaining tears dashed from their eyes. Luis peaks out from behind a bank of lockers, trying to catch a glimpse of her, see if it's possible to walk past while her back is turned and escape her notice.

McDaniel is kneeling in front of a bench, where Sutton Dreamy and Tot Fox sit. Dreamy looks faint. She has a juice box, and her hand is held gently in her teammate's claw. McDaniel signs tersely at her, one-handed. Fox is curled up in a ball, and as Luis listens he makes a weak noise.

The Blooddrain, they realize. They must still be feeling its effects. Both of them had lost blood to Dale hitters. Best, too, now that they think about it; but a glance at him reveals no apparent distress. His blank store-mannequin face is as expressionless as ever.

"I don't understand," they say. Was she-- comforting them? Nagomi, the best player in blaseball, who now swallows fire? She drinks blood herself, with a messiness that makes their vampiric sense of propriety almost offended-- even last game, when three of her teammates had suffered, she'd had her fill from the Dale in return.

It is inconceivable to them that her expression is so tender.

At that exact moment the seeing-eye crow on her shoulder turns, meets their gaze. They glance away quickly.

Best begins to sign. It is a language they do not understand-- he catches himself at their puzzled look. "Greek," he explains, and then, unusually, begins again in ASL.

"But you gods are willing to give aid to murderous Achilles,  
who has neither righteous mind, nor pliant purpose within his chest:  
The things he knows are savage, just like a lion  
who, having yielded to great violence and his warlike heart  
appears among the flocks of mortal men looking for a feast.  
So too Achilles has utterly lost pity, nor is there any reverence in him,  
which brings both harm and help to men.  
Perhaps someone else will lose another even more dear to him,  
his own brother, born from the same womb, or his son:  
but surely, having wailed and mourned, he lets go.  
For the Moirai have granted to mortals a heart steadfast in suffering.  
But he, after he has robbed godlike Hector of his own dear heart,  
hanging him from his horses he drags him around the burial-mound  
of his own companion: and for him, nothing nobler or better will come of it.  
Let him beware - although he is brave, we may grow bitter toward him,  
for he disfigures the mute earth in his rage."

It is the longest thing he's ever said to them. He scuttles away, over to where the three of them sit, and as he does Nagomi reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. He nods, as if affirming something.

How had they not noticed their teammates' discomfort? They've drunk before; they should know the effect of blood loss on the victim. Luis Acevedo shoves this aside as the time comes to take the field.

Joyous energy. Energy completely different to that of the Baltimore Crabs' star player.

But still. The top of the fourth inning, Dreamy's home run. They see it an instant before it happens, their Eye of Light. Luis sets off running. As they round home plate, McDaniel stands from her position in the dugout. Wordlessly, as they pass her, she claps them on the shoulder. Hands them a bottle of water.

Then she's gone, off to say something to Loser, just come in as well.

Luis sits down next to Forrest Best.

"What did you mean?" they ask. "When you compared her to Achilles." It is, for once, a reference of his they solidly understand. 

Best looks at them.

"Achilles was violent," they say. "And full of hubris. And he brought his own downfall avenging the person he loved."

Dreamy comes in, flushed with exertion, and McDaniel catches her in a lift-you-off-the-ground hug. Best's head swivels to look.

His mannequin head displays no facial features. But the way his fingers move as he signs almost conveys a smile. A fierce smile.

"It does not follow," he signs, "that the interruption must be unwelcome."

**Author's Note:**

> the illiad translation forrest quotes (extremely good) is by dionysus-complex on tumblr


End file.
